"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

More on Aglaus of Psophis

Aglaus of Psophis was the ancient counterpart of Willy Lott, a man who hardly ever left his native ground. See here for some ancient testimonia about Aglaus. There is also a reference to Aglaus in Ausonius, Ludus Septem Sapientum 91-100. The only translation I could find of this passage from Ausonius is this quaint one by Edward Sherburne (Solon is speaking):

Croesus, the Tyrant King of Lydia,Happy, and rich even to Excesse! (who wall'dThe Temples of his Gods with pure Gold) call'dMe from my Country to him: We obeyHis Royall Summons, went to Lydia,Willing his Subjects by our means might findTheir King improv'd, and better'd in his Mind.He asks Me whom I thought the happiest Man?I said Telana the Athenian,Who his life nobly for his Country gave;He pishes at it, will another have.I told him then Aglaus who the BoundsNe'r past in all his life of his own grounds.

For example, when the question was asked of the god, what person satisfied the reputation of true happiness, the happiest man was pronounced by Apollo's oracle to be Aglaus the Arcadian, who had never ventured away from his little ancestral farm.

Abraham Cowley, in The Country Life, mentions Aglaus (along with Abdalonymus and Vergil's old man of Corycia) as an example of the happy man:

Blest be the man (and blest he is) whom[e' re](Plac'd far out of the roads of Hope or Fear)A little Field, and little Garden feeds;The Field gives all that Frugal Nature needs,The wealthy Garden liberally bestowsAll she can ask, when she luxurious grows.The specious inconveniences that waitUpon a life of Business, and of State,He sees (nor does the sight disturb his rest)By Fools described, by wicked men possest.

Thus, thus (and this deserv'd great Virgils praise)The old Corycian Yeom[a]n past his daies,Thus his wise life Abdolonymus spent:Th' Ambassadours which the great Emp'rour sentTo offer him a Crown, with wonder foundThe reverend Gard'ner howing of his Ground.Unwillingly and slow and discontent,From his lov'd Cottage, to a Throne he went.And oft he stopt in his tryumphant way,And oft lookt back, and oft was heard to sayNot without sighs, Alas, I there forsakeA happier Kingdom then I go to take.

Thus Aglaüs (a man unknown to men,But the gods knew and therefore lov'd him Then)Thus liv'd obscurely then without a Name,Aglaüs now consign'd t' eternal Fame.For Gyges, the rich King, wicked and great,Presum'd at wise Apollos Delphick seatPresum'd to ask, Oh thou, the whole Worlds Eye,See'st thou a Man, that Happier is then I?The God, who scorn'd to flatter Man, reply'd,Aglaüs Happier is. But Gyges cry'd,In a proud rage, Who can that Aglaüs be?We have heard as yet of no such King as Hee.And true it was through the whole Earth aroundNo King of such a Name was to be found.Is some old Hero of that name alive,Who his high race does from the Gods derive?Is it some mighty General that has done,Wonders in fight, and God-like honours wone?Is it some m[a]n of endless wealth, said he?None, none of these; who can this Aglaüs bee?After long search and vain inquiries past,In an obscure Arcadian Vale at last,(The Arcadian life has always shady been)Near Sopho's Town (which he but once had seen)This Aglaüs who Monarchs Envy drew,Whose Happiness the Gods stood witness too,This mighty Aglaüs was labouring found,With his own Hands in his own little ground.

So, gracious God, (if it may lawful be,Among those foolish gods to mention Thee)So let me act, on such a private stage,The last dull Scenes of my declining Age;After long toiles and Voyages in vain,This quiet Port let my tost Vessel gain,Of Heavenly rest, this Earnest to me lend,Let my Life sleep, and learn to love her End.

This is Cowley's translation of his own Latin verses in Libri Plantarum (1668) 4.1-48: